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1000 tulosta hakusanalla Edna Healey
"And so," the story writers used to say, "they lived happily ever after." Um-m-m-maybe. After the glamour had worn off, and the glass slippers were worn out, did the Prince never find Cinderella's manner redolent of the kitchen hearth; and was it never necessary that he remind her to be more careful of her finger-nails and grammar? After Puss in Boots had won wealth and a wife for his young master did not that gentleman often fume with chagrin because the neighbors, perhaps, refused to call on the lady of the former poor miller's son? It is a great risk to take with one's book-children. These stories make no such promises. They stop just short of the phrase of the old story writers, and end truthfully, thus: And so they lived.
president of the Buck Featherloom Petticoat Company, coming gaily down the hall, stopped before it, dismayed, as one who, with a spicy bit of news at his tongue's end, is met with rebuff before the first syllable is voiced. That closed door meant: "Busy. Keep out." "She'll be reading a letter," T. A. Buck told himself grimly. Then he turned the knob and entered his partner's office. Mrs. Emma McChesney was reading a letter. More than that, she was poring over it so that, at the interruption, she glanced up in a maddeningly half-cocked manner which conveyed the impression that, while her physical eye beheld the intruder, her mental eye was still on the letter
Though he rarely heeded its summons-cagy boy that he was-the telephone rang oftenest for Nick. Because of the many native noises of the place, the telephone had a special bell that was a combination buzz and ring. It sounded above the roar of outgoing cars, the splash of the hose, the sputter and hum of the electric battery in the rear. Nick heard it, unheeding. A voice-Smitty's or Mike's or Elmer's-answering its call. Then, echoing through the grey, vaulted spaces of the big garage: "Nick Oh, Ni-ick " From the other side of the great cement-floored enclosure, or in muffled tones from beneath a car: "Whatcha want?" "Dame on the wire." "I ain't in." The obliging voice again, dutifully repeating the message: "He ain't in... . Well, it's hard to say. He might be in in a couple hours andthen again he might not be back till late. I guess he's went to Hammond on a job--" (Warming to his task now.) "Say, won't I do?... Who's fresh Aw, say, lady " You'd think, after repeated rebuffs of this sort, she could not possibly be so lacking in decent pride as to leave her name for Smitty or Mike or Elmer to bandy about. But she invariably did, baffled by Nick's elusiveness. She was likely to be any one of a number. Miss Bauers phoned: Will you tell him, please? (A nasal voice, and haughty, with the hauteur that seeks to conceal secret fright.) Tell him it's important. Miss Ahearn phoned: Will you tell him, please? Just say Miss Ahearn. A-h-e-a-r-n. Miss Olson: Just Gertie. But oftenest Miss Bauers. Cupid's messenger, wearing grease-grimed overalls and the fatuous grin of the dalliant male, would transmit his communication to the uneager Nick. "'S wonder you wouldn't answer the phone once yourself. Says you was to call Miss Bauers any time you come in between one and six at Hyde Park-wait a min't'-yeh-Hyde Park 6079, and any time after six at--" "Wha'd she want?" "Well, how the hell should I know Says call Miss Bauers any time between one and six at Hyde Park 6--" "Swell chanst. Swell chanst " Which explains why the calls came oftenest for Nick. He was so indifferent to them. You pictured the patient and persistent Miss Bauers, or the oxlike Miss Olson, or Miss Ahearn, or just Gertie hovering within hearing distance of the telephone listening, listening-while one o'clock deepened to six-for the call that never came; plucking up fresh courage at six until six o'clock dragged on to bedtime. When next they met: "I bet you was there all the time. Pity you wouldn't answer a call when a person leaves their name. You could of give me a ring. I bet you was there all the time." "Well, maybe I was."
Roast Beef, Medium: The Business Adventures of Emma McChesney
Edna Ferber
Createspace Independent Publishing Platform
2017
nidottu
The stories featured Emma McChesney: smart, savvy, stylish, divorced mother, and Midwest traveling sales representative for T. A. Buck's Featherloom skirts and petticoats. With one hand on her sample case and the other fending off advances from salesmen, hotel clerks, and other predators, Emma holds on tightly to her reputation: honest, hardworking, and able to outsell the slickest salesman.Like her compact bag of traveling necessities, Emma has her life boiled down to essentials: her work and her seventeen-year-old son, Jock. Her experience has taught her that it's best to stick to roast beef, medium--avoiding both physical and moral indigestion--rather than experiment with fancy sauces and exotic dishes. Yet she never shies away from a challenge, and her sharp instincts and common sense serve her well in dealing with the likes of Ed Meyer, a smooth-talking, piano-playing salesman; Blanche LeHay, prima donna of the Sam Levin Crackerjack Belles; and T. A. Buck Jr., the wet-behind-the-ears son of the founder of Featherloom.
Scene: A stage] The curtain rises on a stage set for a Harlequinade, a merry black and white interior. Directly behind the footlights, and running parallel with them, is a long table, covered with a gay black and white cloth, on which is spread a banquet. At the opposite ends of this table, seated on delicate thin-legged chairs with high backs, are Pierrot and Columbine, dressed according to the tradition, excepting that Pierrot is in lilac, and Columbine in pink. They are dining.] COLUMBINE: Pierrot, a macaroon I cannot live without a macaroon PIERROT: My only love, You are so intense . . . Is it Tuesday, Columbine?- I'll kiss you if it's Tuesday. COLUMBINE: It is Wednesday, If you must know . . . . Is this my artichoke, Or yours? PIERROT: Ah, Columbine, -as if it mattered Wednesday . . . . Will it be Tuesday, then, to-morrow, By any chance? COLUMBINE: To-morrow will be-Pierrot, That isn't funny PIERROT: I thought it rather nice. Well, let us drink some wine and lose our heads And love each other. COLUMBINE: Pierrot, don't you love Me now? PIERROT: La, what a woman -how should I know? Pour me some wine: I'll tell you presently. COLUMBINE: Pierrot, do you know, I think you drink too much. PIERROT: Yes, I dare say I do. . . . Or else too little. It's hard to tell. You see, I am always wanting A little more than what I have, -or else A little less. There's something wrong. My dear, How many fingers have you? COLUMBINE: La, indeed, How should I know?-It always takes me one hand To count the other with. It's too confusing. Why? PIERROT: Why?-I am a student, Columbine; And search into all matters. COLUMBINE: La, indeed?- Count them yourself, then
Emma McChesney put down the letter and smiled. "Sit down-now that you're in. And if you expect me to say, 'Knew what' you're doomed to disappointment." T. A. Buck remained standing, both gloved hands clasping his walking stick on which he leaned. "Every time I come into this office, you're reading the latest scrawl from your son. One would think Jock's letters were deathless masterpieces. I believe you read them at half-hour intervals all week, and on Sunday get 'em all out and play solitaire with them." Emma McChesney's smile widened frankly to a grin.
There is no knowing why they confided these things to Sophy instead of to each other, these wedded sisters of hers. Perhaps they held for each other an unuttered distrust or jealousy. Perhaps, in making a confidante of Sophy, there was something of the satisfaction that comes of dropping a surreptitious stone down a deep well and hearing it plunk, safe in the knowledge that it has struck no one and that it cannot rebound, lying there in the soft darkness. Sometimes they would end by saying, "But you don't know what it is, Sophy. You can't. I'm sure I don't know why I'm telling you all this." But when Sophy answered, sagely, "I know; I know"-they paid little heed, once having unburdened themselves. The curious part of it is that she did know. She knew as a woman of fifty must know who, all her life, has given and given and in return has received nothing.
Married and Looking for Love
Edna Sara Bobinox Cormier
Createspace Independent Publishing Platform
2017
nidottu
RECORD IT Want to chart your Christian growth? Record It You have spiritually matured? Record It Found a revelation of Divine inspiration? Record It Allow yourself to be overwhelmed by daily trails? God provides blessings every day, but we forget them. What is there to do? RECORD IT This SPIRITUAL JOURNAL will give an orderly recorded compilation of how the Lord is caring for you and granting favor. It is designed to help you Record it Daily, the SPIRITUAL JOURNAL helps document the special thoughts, insights, names and blessings that occur in life. Record joys, hopes and prayers in a simple manner and preserve them forever. Chart how God answers prayers in your life and the lives of others. The SPIRITUAL JOURNAL makes the perfect gift for a cherished friend or relative. It is my desire that this SPIRITUAL JOURNAL will become your daily companion and a valued treasure to refer to for inspiration and blessings.
As John 16:13 informs, the Spirit of God guides into all truth, I have been a servant diligently seeking, studying, learning, and understanding the truth from the inspired Word of God. In my desire to know more of the Word, I began attending an accredited Christian university five years ago. However, a yearning to seek, learn, and understand what God said began with a personal study of the Bible 15 years prior, when God pulled me out of several despairing situations and guided me to put my hope in Him through faith in Jesus Christ.
